Wispy thoughts of white picket fences and scented love letters, comparisons to circus riders and sappy movies, something excruciatingly painful to wait for; this is how her friends saw love. To them, love was like a prize-winning flower poised in a greenhouse -- lovely, fragrant, perfect in every regard. They pitied her, for, to them, her romantic life seemed like an empty horizon. Maybe so, but she wasn't looking for what her friends were. She thought of love not as a greenhouse flower, but a desert flower; robust, adaptable, not needy, and tough as hell to kill. She wanted that and only that, or nothing at all. For her, the wait was easy.